


Dawn

by kekinkawaii



Category: Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29420805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: The first thought Butler had was,He’s so small, which was rather stupid because he was a newborn baby around two hours old, of course he was small, and Butler was, ahem, ratherbig, so obviously Artemis Fowl Junior would be considerably smaller compared to himself, but somehow the ratio seemed severely disproportionate.
Relationships: Domovoi Butler & Artemis Fowl II
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34
Collections: Artemis Fowl Big Bang 2021





	Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trashmctrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmctrash/gifts).



> My first Artemis Fowl fic! I had the honour of working with trashmctrash/0w0whatisthis, who created some AMAZING ART SERIOUSLY. I love it to pieces ::chefs kiss::
> 
> Thank you to those who organized this Big Bang! I had an absolute blast revisiting one of my favourite series. 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Juliet had been a crier. When Butler was first introduced to his little sister, he had half a mind to invest in earplugs, if it didn’t mean severely hindering his ability to hear his surroundings. Their parents had no such qualms, and it rapidly became a staple in the household for the first two years of Juliet’s life, leaving Butler to slowly, painfully, excruciatingly, become accustomed to the ear-wrenching wails that split through her room. 

Butler developed the skill of maintaining a stoic facade and a low, soothing voice whilst changing her diapers, feeding her the daily pea-mush of babies (Butler couldn’t fault her for crying about _that;_ he didn’t think he would enjoy it very much, either, and he had once survived off nothing but hard tack for a month), and generally keeping Juliet from killing herself—which was rather a feat considering her tendency to crawl, climb, and tumble off all their fancy, expensive furniture. There was an occasion where Butler had swooped in to cradle her after she had toppled off the top of their China cabinet, shushing and humming and rubbing her back and trying not to wince at her affronted screeching from being disrupted.

Juliet was nimble, quick; always in a hurry, it seemed, falling and shooting up to her feet before Butler could even reach her, sometimes. She would be a great fighter, Butler thought, and started training her in jujitsu at the Fowl Estate. It did wonders for her skyrocketing energy levels.

As she grew, her wailing dwindled into small, teary frowns, and then into dramatic pouts. Butler was glad. He had been worried he was developing tinnitus. 

Butler was informed that Angeline Fowl had gone into labour on Halloween. His flight to the Sisters of Mercy maternity ward was riddled with turbulence and did little to sooth his fraying nerves—though you’d never see it from the outside. 

This was what he had been training for all his life. This was what he had been _waiting_ for, all his life.

They called him into the room quietly, Angeline’s voice utterly gone, her husband’s merely a shade louder. Still with the same razor edge of unmoving discipline, but with the tinge of defeat that only Angeline was able to draw out.

“Butler,” Artemis Fowl Senior said, steely. “Meet Artemis Fowl, Junior.”

The nurse stepped forth and placed a tiny warm bundle into his arms.

The first thought Butler had was, _He’s so small,_ which was rather stupid because he was a newborn baby around two hours old, of course he was small, and Butler was, ahem, rather _big,_ so obviously Artemis Fowl, Junior, would be considerably smaller compared to himself, but somehow the ratio seemed severely disproportionate.

“Hello,” Butler said stupidly, because clearly Artemis couldn’t talk nor understand him. 

Artemis peered up at him with blue eyes that seemed shockingly aware. His head even tilted just so, as if he had, in fact, understood. He yawned, showing pink, toothless gums, and then squirmed in the bundle of baby blue blankets. Butler shifted to accommodate the weight change, cradling the boy closer.

With a final slow-blink of his eyes, Artemis turned his face to the side, and promptly fell asleep. 

“Oh,” Angeline breathed from the hospital bed. “He must be tired.” A laugh. “Not that Arty did any work. He didn’t even cry that much.”

“He’s an exceptionally quiet baby,” the nurse murmured, adjusting the blankets around the mother. “I’m sure he’ll be an angel.”

Angeline smiled, exhausted, and went to sleep as well.

Butler looked down at Artemis. This was the boy—the man—he was going to be accompanying for the rest of his life and onwards. The nurse was right; he didn’t make a sound, his tiny baby face expressionless. 

Juliet had screamed like a banshee on the night of her birth. This was unexpected, but not surprising. Butler wouldn’t have to worry about tinnitus, at any rate. Or maybe the nurse was right, and Artemis was just tired, and he would be the devil incarnate once he got his energy back up.

For now, Butler just breathed, and held Artemis close, doing his job.

Artemis slept the whole way back to the Fowl Manor, and woke up just in time for dinner. After Angeline had breastfed, bathed, and clothed him in simple dark-blue pyjamas, she had just enough energy left to burp him and rock him until his eyes closed again before Artemis Fowl Senior took her gently by the arm.

“Time for bed, Angeline,” he said.

“But Arty,” Angeline said, barely a sigh, stroking her fingers through the wispy strands of black hair on the boy’s head.

“Butler will take care of him,” Artemis Fowl Senior responded, and Angeline let herself be guided out of the nursery and into their own bedroom right down the hall.

It was Butler’s turn to stand guard. Unlike Angeline, he had many experiences with sleep deprivation, and he had barely grazed the edge of his capabilities. Nighttime was the most dangerous, even with all the safety in this Manor— _especially_ with all of it—and he was perfectly content to stand firmly at attention outside of the door for the rest of the night, until Artemis’ parents woke up.

One hour later, there was no sign of disturbance. He could hear the cook prepping something from downstairs—whole wheat waffles, probably. The sounds of sweeping from the maid slowly reached the end of the halls. He stood, eyes tracking every wisp, every breeze, until the occupants of the manor had all but gone to sleep.

Two hours later, Butler began to grow antsy. No, antsy wasn’t the right word—Butler was never antsy. But there was no mistaking the creeping sensation of something not entirely unlike anxiety crawling across the back of his neck.

It was quiet; too quiet. Butler was used to infinitesimal rustlings and incomprehensible murmurs. Juliet talked in her sleep, sometimes concerningly lucid. With his surroundings so silent now, he could hear his heart, a disconcerting patter in his ears.

A thought struck him so fast and hard he nearly keeled over. Sudden infant death syndrome was rare, very rare, and Artemis was a healthy baby boy at any means, if not a little pale, but he was sleeping so much and he had hardly cried since the hospital and it was so _quiet—_

Butler burst into the nursery and was by Artemis’ side in less than two seconds (two seconds too slow, Madame Ko’s voice hissed in his ear). He grasped the bars of the crib and stared down at Artemis.

The boy’s chest was moving, steadily, up and down.

Butler let out a stream of breath that released all the tension along with it. This close, he could see the quivering of the baby’s eyelashes. He ducked his head lower into the crib, ignoring the way the edge dug into his ribs; this close, he could hear the steady in-and-out of the boy’s breathing. It was a sweet sound.

Then it changed perceptibly. Artemis held his breath for one second, turning uneven, then his bright blue eyes met Butler’s.

Butler reared up, frozen as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. Something in the Fowl child’s gaze made him feel indistinctly chastised. 

Artemis’s features scrunched up, brows crinkling and lips pursing. Butler braced himself for the inevitable cry of outrage.

Instead, nothing came.

Artemis reached out a chubby arm and waved it in the air clumsily. On instinct, Butler reached over, and felt surprising-strong fingers grasp his thumb and wrap around and tug him closer. Not wanting to injure him in any way (babies were fragile, delicate things), Butler allowed himself to be manhandled. It was almost an amusing thought, a man nearing a hundred kilos being guided by a baby who weighed barely an ounce.

Artemis seemed satisfied once he had drawn Butler’s hand close enough that, if he curled his fingers, he could skim the baby’s face. 

“What are you doing?” Butler murmured—once again, ridiculous. Artemis could not possibly understand. But his eyes darted up at the noise nonetheless, and some sort of understanding must have passed, because the next thing Artemis did was to open his mouth and clamp down on Butler’s thumb.

“Ouch,” Butler said softly, even though it didn’t hurt. There was something about Artemis that made him say things like that, without reason. Artemis chomped down harder, and Butler wondered distantly if he should pull away, scold him perhaps—discipline was best taught at a young age, after all.

But Artemis was slobbering all over Butler’s hand and his eyes were still fixed on him, so inquisitive, so young, and there was a light in them that Butler hadn’t ever seen in the boy’s father. 

“Oh, just this once,” Butler said, and he swore he saw Artemis smile.

Artemis fell asleep after ten minutes. Butler wiped his hands on the blankets in his crib before tucking them over the boy, then returned to his post outside the door.

The silence still bothered him, but he could still feel the tiny, tiny bitemarks around his thumb, and in the morning when Angeline approached him with a tired, grateful smile, Butler was glad to step away and watch her coo over Artemis, sleepy and grumpy and safe.

-+-+-+-

It was not a fluke that Artemis had come home from the hospital quiet and solemn. Butler quickly learned that “quiet and solemn” was the epitome of Artemis’ typical personality. When Artemis was happy, his eyes crinkled and his mouth turned up, but he never really laughed. When Artemis was sad, his eyebrows came together and his lip went out in a pout and he refused to move, turning to stone under his mother’s soothing palms.

Often, Angeline would be the primary caretaker of Artemis throughout the day. These times, Butler would stand on guard—not close enough to hover, but close enough to comfort himself that he was. Artemis Fowl, Senior, would sometimes allow Artemis to sit in the playmat Angeline had insisted on placing inside his office _(You’re always working, it’s not healthy—just look at Arty, isn’t he just adorable—)_ while he scribbled his no-nonsense signature onto documents, all sharp angles and teeth, and spoke just as sharply into the receiver.

Butler was changing Artemis’ diaper one day when the boy suddenly began to babble.

“Artemis?” Butler said out loud. He’d made it a habit of speaking his mind when Artemis was around. If anything, it would aid his progression and understanding of words. He also found it oddly soothing, to be able to speak to someone who would not and could not respond. When Artemis had trouble falling asleep, Butler would sometimes rock him and softly murmur nonsensical phrases, snippets of thoughts he’d had that day.

The child babbled again, accompanied with a flailing grab towards Butler’s face. Butler leaned back—Artemis hated having his nails cut, and despite the size of them, they stung like hell when raked across his chin.

“None of that,” Butler said softly. “You want to grab me, you cut your nails first.”

Artemis appeared to have not heard him. He made a swipe again, and then another incomprehensible garble. 

“What is it?” Butler asked, awareness prickling along his scalp. “What are you trying to say, Artemis?”

Artemis levelled a frustrated look at Butler.

“Go on,” Butler said. “You can do it.”

Artemis opened his mouth again, and what tumbled out was a slurred, blurry sound that vaguely resembled some sort of word… 

“Old?” Butler said, nearly reeling. He wasn’t even twenty-five.

Artemis looked at Butler, eyes wide, and then rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know if I should be alarmed that you know how to do that before your first word,” Butler informed him.

Artemis opened his mouth again, and that was when a knock sounded at the door to the nursery.

“Butler?”

“Master Fowl,” Butler said obediently, and heard the door click open.

Artemis Fowl Senior’s nose crinkled just slightly on the bridge when he caught the smell. “Have you seen my gold cufflinks?” he asked Butler.

“The maid took them for cleaning, Sir,” Butler responded. “They were getting smudged.”

“Ah,” was the clipped response, and then, “What’s he doing?”

Butler glanced down at Artemis, who was making a positive ruckus at this point. Curiously, he finished changing his diaper, and then gave him a throughout pat-down, finding nothing out of the ordinary. “I think he’s trying to say his first word.”

Artemis seemed to jolt at that, and he repeated that sound again, firmer. 

“Is that so?” His father came closer, peering down. “Say it again, Arty.”

Artemis did, and his father underwent an expression change, his eyebrows flying up with satisfaction. “Well done, Arty,” he praised, and Butler couldn’t help but ask.

“What _is_ he saying?”

“What do you think?” Artemis Fowl Senior responded, as if it were obvious.

“I thought, ‘old’, at first,” Butler approached, and watched the other chuckle.

“He’s clearly saying _gold,”_ Artemis Fowl Senior declared, and reached out to pat the boy’s head, which was abundant with tufts of soft, black hair. “He’s going to be a great businessman.”

“Gold,” Butler murmured, nearly to himself.

 _“Aurum est potestas,”_ Artemis Fowl Senior called out as he exited the room. “Maybe those will be his next words.”

The door shut with a click, and Butler was left to watch Artemis’s tiny clenched fist and wide eyes by himself.

“Was that really what you were trying to say?” Butler asked him.

Artemis tilted his head, and then shut his eyes, indicating the clear end of conversation.

Well, Butler thought as he carried Artemis back to his crib for his afternoon nap (getting more and more frequent; soon they would stop forever), he hadn’t _really_ pronounced anything. It was a babble, consonants distorted. Artemis Fowl Senior thought _gold,_ and so he heard gold. It didn’t really count.

That night, Angeline insisted they go for a walk, and take Artemis along. There was a gorgeous snowy path just a short walk away from their manor, private property of course, where they would go skating when Artemis had grown old enough.

Butler bundled Artemis up in layers and layers and ignored the ever-growing frowns from the boy. “This is for your own good,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to pull on a pair of snowpants.

“You’re wrapping him up like he’s going to the Arctic!” Angeline said, laughing. “Arty is big and strong, aren’t you, darling? You can take a little cold, can’t you?”

“Of course he can,” Artemis Fowl Senior chimed in. “He’ll be alright, Butler. No need to make a fuss.”

As if to accentuate this, Artemis wriggled his hips and narrowly evaded another one of Butler’s attempts to dress him up warmer.

“Fair enough,” Butler grunted, and patted the top of Artemis’s head before sticking a hat over it. “No snowpants. But the hat stays on.”

Artemis glowered but stayed still, allowing Butler to place him into the stroller, wheeling him out the door. It was five degrees below zero with a wind chill of around negative three; cold enough that Butler felt concern gnawing at him as he watched the wooly bobble on Artemis’s head fluttering in the wind.

The path was well-maintained, but Butler was careful to steer around the scarce icy patches and shield Artemis from the wind to the best of his abilities. They reached the forests a few minutes after, snowy pines towering over them and the occasional flurry of fallen snow sifting through the air.

Angeline struck up a conversation about the upcoming holiday season, voice growing excited as she gestured with graceful hands. She played the piano, Butler knew, and played it well enough that she wished to teach Artemis when he was older.

Even Artemis Fowl Senior, usually stoic and still, relaxed slowly in the presence of his wife’s contagious joy. Their steps quickened. When Angeline teased him about a ski trip to Colorado they’d taken two years ago, he even smiled.

Eyes bright blue and sparkling, Angeline challenged her husband to a race up the snow dunes a few paces ahead, heading up a winding hill speckled with stray trees. 

“Go on ahead,” Butler said, relaxed himself. Artemis seemed to be thoroughly engrossed with his surroundings—he had only seen snow a few times, after all, and Butler was sure this was one of the only times he was old enough to consciously register and process it properly. “I’ll watch over him.”

Angeline darted closer to press a kiss to Artemis’s forehead, and then peppered his cheeks with the same soft kisses, before dashing Butler a smile and racing away to berate Artemis Fowl Senior, who had gotten a head start, steadily working his way up the hill.

Butler adjusted the stroller until Artemis was in his range of vision, and then took a second to admire the beauty of the nature around him. He used to meditate in woods like these, and he could feel the familiar calm settle into his bones with the chilly bite of the air on his cheeks.

It was interrupted when Artemis let out another sound; whining this time. He was squirming in his seat, hands fumbling with the buckle on his waist.

“Hey,” Butler said sharply, and hurried to kneel down next to him. “Don’t do that. That’s dangerous.”

Artemis made another sound, more frustrated.

Butler studied him. “You want to get out?” he tried, and was confirmed when Artemis grasped the buckle that was supposedly child-proof, turned it around, and popped it right open.

“Okay, we’re getting you out,” Butler said quickly, reaching over to finish undoing the buckle himself. Artemis gratefully reached out and allowed him to be picked up out of the seat. Lightly bouncing the boy in his arms, Butler asked, “Where do you want to go?”

Artemis squirmed some more, reaching down.

“The snow?” Butler tried, and lowered Artemis until he was seated on the edge of the path, this coat barely brushing the snow. He kept his eyes sharply on Artemis’s reactions, wary for any sign of discomfort or alarm.

Artemis reached down and touched the path, intensely focused. Then, he patted around, expanding his field, until his hand grazed the snow.

He snatched his hand back with a quiet noise.

Butler felt a smile stretch across his face. “That’s snow, Artemis,” he said softly.

Artemis gazed at him, then at the snow, wide-eyed. He tried again, and this time got as far as dipping his fingers into the snow before retreating. He sucked on his fingers.

“Don’t do that,” Butler said automatically. It was fresh-fallen snow, but that didn’t mean it was clean.

Artemis touched the snow again. Then, with a steely look of determination, he began to crawl into the powder.

Alarmed, Butler made a move to pick Artemis back up—and then stopped. Artemis was crawling with purpose, and even at one year of age, Butler knew the extent of his intelligence. He withdrew, with a silent grateful thought that he pulled on those puffy mittens before Artemis threw his fit.

Artemis made his way two or so metres into the snow before stopping. From there, he abruptly stopped, and went onto his knees.

“Artemis,” Butler called, curious but alert.

Pushing on his knees, shaky like a newborn baby foal, Artemis got onto his feet.

“Artemis?” Butler said, as Artemis turned to face Butler, and, knees trembling but so, so determined, began to walk.

“Oh, Artemis,” Butler said.

Artemis got halfway to Butler before his knees buckled and he toppled face-first into the snow.

Later that night, Butler would turn this moment over in his head a thousand times, analyzing the reasons and nuances behind how on _Earth_ he had blundered so hard, lost so much attention, be so utterly inattentive as to not react in time to get to Artemis before he fell.

He would think and think, but all he could recall was the look on Artemis’s face while he made his first steps towards Butler.

Butler swooped in and gathered Artemis out of the snow within a split second of his fall (a split second too late) only to see Artemis’s face crinkle with displeasure, nose dappled with a tiny white splotch of snow.

He opened his mouth and said, utterly clearly, “Cold.”

Butler went very, very still. “What did you say?”

“Cold,” Artemis said again, and pouted.

“Oh, Artemis,” Butler said, and bundled Artemis closer to his chest. He hadn’t laughed out loud in years, but it was very, very tempting. _“Cold._ Yes, it is. It’s very cold.”

“Cold,” Artemis said again, an insistent babble.

“I told you to put on those snowpants,” Butler said, and held him closer.

-+-+-+-

Butler was in his study, reading a book, when Artemis knocked on the door. He knew it was Artemis from the sound alone: his father was harsher, his mother more delicate. Artemis knocked firmly, but tentatively, almost polite.

“Come in, Artemis,” Butler said, hurriedly closing the book and memorizing the page.

Artemis entered. Butler immediately noticed the line of tension on the small boy’s brow. Not enough to warrant sudden action, but something was certainly on his mind. He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Clasping his hands in front of him, Artemis composed himself for a moment. “Today is Father’s thirty-seventh birthday.”

Ah, Butler thought. “It is,” he agreed. “What were you hoping to do, then?”

“On my birthday, Mum made me a cake,” Artemis said. “And pancakes for breakfast. And gifts.”

Butler remembered. Artemis had gotten a watch that was so heavy it looked disproportionately bulky on the boy’s delicate wrist. “You want to make pancakes?” he said, a little taken aback.

Artemis scowled. It was unnatural how natural it looked on his face. Butler worried he’d get wrinkles before he hit puberty, at this rate.

“Maybe not pancakes,” he relented. “I think a cake would be adequate, however. It’s tradition.”

“Fair enough,” Butler said mildly. “What kind of cake?”

“Father likes walnuts,” Artemis said. “I think German chocolate cake would be… nice.”

“That does sound good,” Butler said. “The cook has a traditional recipe for it. Want me to get it for you?”

“No need,” Artemis said. “I have it.”

Butler didn’t question it. “What do you need me for?” Otherwise, he wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of knocking. Artemis could burst into Butler’s room in the middle of the night and Butler would be fine with it. He insisted on being polite, though, a drilled-in muscle memory from the etiquette lessons Angeline had made Artemis take. 

Artemis’s face turned pink and he cast his eyes upon the maroon carpeting. “The vanilla beans are stored in the top shelves,” he muttered, so quietly Butler nearly missed it, and dripping with venom. “I can’t reach them.”

Butler paused.

“I could climb onto the counter, I suppose,” Artemis continued, “or drag over a chair from the dinner table―”

“Absolutely not,” Butler said, remembering when Juliet fell from the China cabinet. “I’ll do it for you.”

“Excellent,” said Artemis, perfunctory, and left the room, expecting Butler to follow with confidence.

The cake was nearly half-done. Butler hadn’t cooked much for himself since he’d become Artemis’s guardian, but even he could tell that the batter was smooth and buttery and quite nearly perfect. A six-year old shouldn’t be able to do this, he thought, but Artemis was never a six-year old, then, not really.

He helped Artemis retrieve the vanilla beans, which were only at chest level for him, and watched as Artemis carefully split one down the middle with their sharpest kitchen knife.

“Careful,” Butler said instinctively.

Artemis glanced over at Butler, and, without watching his hands, flipped the knife over and began scraping the seeds out from the pod. “I’m always careful.”

They prepared the filling while waiting for the cake to cool; Butler laying the ingredients down across the counter and Artemis puttering around the kitchen with measuring cups and spoons and stirring with a look of fierce concentration.

“What’s that smell?” Angeline said, her voice carrying over from down the hall. Butler heard her footsteps, padded by her silk slippers, approach the kitchen and stop by the entrance.

“We’re making a cake,” Butler said.

“It’s a German chocolate cake,” Artemis said. “With caramel and coconut and pecans. For Father’s birthday.”

“Oh, Arty,” Angeline cooed, coming closer to pinch Artemis’s cheeks in a way that made him scowl and lean away. “That’s _adorable.”_

Artemis’s face heated up. “It’s just a cake,” he said.

“It’s your Father’s favourite,” Angeline said, and kissed Artemis on the forehead, smoothing back his hair. “He’s going to _love_ it, Arty. I know _I’m_ going to love it. It smells delicious.”

“It needs to cool before frosting,” Artemis muttered. “Or it will melt.”

“Let’s do that, then, darling,” Angeline said. “I’ve got candles, in the cupboard, if you want.”

“I know,” Artemis said, and―Butler felt a soft tug in his chest like the floppy twitch of a rabbit’s ear―gave her a small smile. “Although, I don’t think having thirty-seven candles on a nine-inch cake would be reasonable.”

Angeline laughed and put a hand on Artemis’s cheek. “I think you’re absolutely right,” she said. “Let’s just stick with one.”

Angeline wanted to help frost and decorate the cake. Artemis didn’t want her to. Angeline looked hurt, but Butler knew why—understood that shoved-down, affection-seeking part of Artemis—and that she didn’t have any true reason to feel upset.

“We can do the cleaning up,” he suggested. “I’ll wipe down the counters and you can do the dishes.”

While they restored the kitchen, Butler kept half an eye on Artemis, the furrow of concentration between his eyes and the stone-steady movement of his hands on the piping bag. When he finished, he sat back with a slow, low breath, and wiped his hands on his pants.

“That looks great,” Butler offered.

“Thank you,” Artemis said.

Artemis Fowl Senior was on a business trip to Spain, had been for nearly a week. Butler didn’t know the specifics, but The Major had spent nearly an hour packing their bags before they had departed, and he wouldn’t be surprised if, by the time he stepped out of the manor, they were armed with enough defence to stock a small military base.

Angeline had begged and begged for him to come home before his birthday. Artemis Fowl Senior had replied, absentmindedly at the time, with a neutral response.

“By midnight,” Angeline had said, stealing a kiss.

“Midnight,” Artemis Fowl Senior repeated. “I’ll try.”

They finished icing the cake right around dinnertime. Artemis transferred it to the fridge for safekeeping while the cook bustled around.

After dinner, there was no sign of Artemis Fowl Senior.

Around 8PM, Angeline received a text message from an unknown, untraceable number, encoded and encrypted to the nines. It took Butler nearly five minutes to decipher the message.

“It’s from Master Fowl,” he said. “He got tied up―metaphorically, so to speak―in a secondary deal. He says he won’t be home until October.”

“Oh, _Arty,”_ Angeline said, and Butler thought the same thing.

Artemis was still. 

“Your cake,” Angeline said miserably.

“It’s not important,” Artemis said immediately. “If Father has business he needs to deal with, then he shall. No need to complicate things.”

“Artemis,” Butler said.

“We can split the cake between all the members of the household,” Artemis reasoned. “It’s more practical that way, too.”

Angeline mumbled something under her breath, spitfire and disappointment. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, reaching over to smooth her hands down Artemis’s shoulders. “It’s a beautiful cake.” 

“I’m sure it’ll taste great,” Butler tacked on.

“Father needed to watch his blood sugar, anyway,” Artemis said, and retired to his room.

It must have been around eleven when Butler tentatively approached the door.

The light was on, a faint illuminated strip of pale yellow-white along the floor. Butler held his breath, and heard nothing from across the wood. Then again, Artemis was always quiet. Even quieter these days than usual. Butler knew his worry was coming from a place inside him that was far more than a professional interest. He tended to ignore the implications of that. Artemis was supposed to be his charge, nothing more.

Quietly, Butler called out his name. Quietly enough that, should he have fallen asleep with the light on, there would be no response.

Artemis responded for Butler to come in. Awake, then. Transferring the plates he was carrying onto one arm, Butler opened the door with the other.

“Butler,” Artemis said. He was sitting at his desk, the chair spun around to face the door. The curtains were open, and the light of a waning crescent moon spilled into the room. “It’s late. What are you doing?” His eyes landed on the two plates balanced on Butler’s forearm. “This again?”

“You didn’t have any for dessert,” Butler said.

“I never have dessert.”

“It’s very good,” Butler said, approaching closer so that he was standing in the middle of the room. “The cook loved it.”

Artemis scoffed.

“Really,” Butler said. “He said your addition of espresso powder in the frosting accentuated the flavour.”

Artemis hummed, but his eyes strayed to the slice of cake, that very frosting piled in neat ringlets atop.

Butler grabbed one of the plates along with a fork and held it out. Artemis raised an eyebrow at him.

“Come on,” Butler said.

“Is this necessary?” Artemis said warily. Butler just stood there, holding out the plate.

Slowly, after a pause, Artemis reached out and grabbed it with both hands. Placing it atop his spick-span desk, he gingerly took the fork as if it were a grenade, and cut off a tiny sliver of the chocolate cake.

Butler internally exhaled. He remained standing, though he took the second fork and began to use it on his own slice. He kept his peripheral vision on the boy as he raised the cake to his mouth.

Artemis chewed, then swallowed, before saying, “Don’t stare, Butler.”

“Sorry,” Butler said hastily.

“It’s fine.”

Butler managed to stay silent until Artemis had taken his third bite. “How is it?”

Artemis levelled an amused look at Butler. “The espresso does accentuate the frosting,” he settled on.

“Good,” Butler said, inexplicably relieved. “That’s good.”

They fell into a relatively-peaceful silence, eating their respective plates of cake. Butler usually didn’t consume this much sugar in one sitting―it _was_ bad for blood sugar. But he finished the entire slice anyway.

“I’m finished,” Artemis declared, when he was only half done. “You know what too much sugar at night does to my sleep cycle.”

“Of course,” Butler said, easily taking the plate. “I’ll… keep it in the fridge for the morning?”

Artemis gave him a small smile. “Sure. Thank you, Butler.”

Butler made his way out the door. Before shutting it, he directed a final look into the room. Artemis was facing the window, watching the wind rustle the leaves of the oak trees.

-+-+-+-

The _Fowl Star_ allegedly sank at around 2300, Pacific Time. Rescuers were working to their hardest to find, identify, and otherwise retrieve any passengers. Butler scoured through all the connections he had, all the reliable legal sources, and a few illegal ones as well, and came out of his search empty-handed.

It was very, very late, and Angeline had cried herself to sleep an hour ago. Butler had poured himself a glass of Cognac―he didn’t drink, but if there was any occasion for a soother, now was the time.

Artemis had declared that he was going on a walk around their property over thirty minutes ago. Butler had insisted on coming along, but Artemis denied it vehemently, with a steel to his tone that reminded Butler of rusty nails. He didn’t want to see them crumble. Which was why Butler was now alone, in the kitchen in the manor with the lights turned off save for one chandelier on the ceiling casting flickering beams across the glass in his hand.

Butler would wait five more minutes, and if Artemis was not back by then, he would go out looking for him.

He made it to three before uttering a quiet curse under his breath and standing up.

It was cold outside; not overly so. An abnormally-warm January night. He could even hear crickets, stirred awake in the lukewarm breeze. There was snow, but crackly and melted to slush beneath his boots.

Butler could see Artemis’s Armani shoes in the prints trailing from the door. They stopped for a moment around three metres out―Butler could see the boy turning, hesitant, or perhaps simply pondering, before they resumed down the path to their summer berry farm. It was a field covered with snow, now, and Angeline wanted to go sledding once Artemis Fowl Senior had returned from his trip. Had mentioned it right before he left to embark on the _Fowl Star._

Butler headed that way, following the slow stumble of footprints.

He caught the silhouette of Artemis before he reached the field. He was standing a ways away from the centre of the field, skirting the far edge.

“Artemis!” Butler called out, and heard his voice echo through the night air, which, suddenly disturbed, broke like a crack through thin ice. Somewhere out in the forest, a fluttering of wings emerged; a barn owl, maybe.

Artemis didn’t make any move to register the call, and though Butler could tell by the stance of the boy that he was perfectly okay and sustained no injuries, an irrational, subconscious, deep part of him flinched at the stillness and surged up in concern. He broke into a run.

Halfway there, Artemis turned. 

“Butler,” he greeted, once Butler skidded to a stop. He was quiet, solemn blue eyes appearing deeper in the dark.

“Artemis,” Butler responded. “It’s late. You should go back to sleep.”

“I’m alright,” Artemis said, obviously lying.

“It’s cold,” Butler tried again.

Artemis arched an eyebrow. “Hardly. It’s nearly eight degrees and I’m in my coat.” He surveyed Butler up and down. “You, on the other hand, are wearing nothing but a shirt.”

Butler easily deflected the change in subject. “You should come back inside,” he insisted.

“And why is that?”

“It’s not safe.”

“You’re here,” was Artemis’s reply.

Butler stumbled, briefly, something warm flaring in his stomach, before regaining his footing. “Still. Artemis, I know you’re worried. We all are.”

“What do you know?” Artemis said, his voice dipping octaves, growing cold and harsh. “You know nothing about the _Fowl Star._ You know nothing about the circumstances of my father. There is nothing you could possibly do.”

“I know that my uncle was on that ship with him,” Butler said. “I know that, with the current information we have, the chances of them having survived are slim to none.”

Artemis was gazing at Butler, now, the light in his eyes quavering.

Butler barrelled on. “I know that, when you were born, I stood guard outside your hospital doors the whole night, and I have stood guard outside your door every single night since, and I will every night following. I know that you are mine to protect.” _To take care of_ was on his tongue, and Butler bit it back. Protect, only protect, serve, nothing more. Those were the rules, and Butler was not allowed to break them.

“My father may be dead, Butler,” Artemis said.

“My uncle may be as well,” Butler said. “And I would trade a dozen of their lives for yours.”

“Butler, I,” Artemis said, and his hands were trembling right at the fingertips, deathly pale in the moonlight like the fallen snow.

There were rules, and Butler was not allowed to break them. Artemis was his charge, his master, but he stepped forward and embraced him anyway.

The boy was nine years old and endlessly older, but he was slim and shivering and so, so small. Butler nearly engulfed him whole. This close, he knew Artemis was safe and nothing could get to him, and that twitching constant worry in his subconscious sighed and stilled.

Artemis was stock-still for the duration of a few of Butler’s deep breaths, before his hands came up to clasp together at Butler’s back. 

And Butler knew it wasn’t over, not in the faintest; knew with painful accuracy like a lens flare the way Artemis’s eyes were losing their light and tilting towards an icy haze. His smiles were getting tighter, more reeled in, day by day. He stayed up later and stayed in more. _Aurum est potestas_ was etched into the grooves of his ribs, and the absence of his father would make it pulse like a pipe bomb.

Butler willed his warmth to enter Artemis through their embrace. Wherever Artemis went, Butler would follow without hesitation. 

The gentle squeeze of Artemis’s arms around his torso replied that he knew.

* * *


End file.
